An island of stone men stuck in time, adrift on the Pacific Ocean.
His memory began with a cart ride, being jolted up a tract of red soil lined by a dense tree line to a location where a strange whoosh and murmur echoed in the air. He had been the first, hoisted by dozens onto a platform of rock beyond which lay only an expanse of blue. Slowly, he had seen his brethren rise, exaggerated heads and short torsos buried in sand from as short as 1.8m to the largest several times his height at 21m. They said he came from the town of Hanga Roa as he now knew its name to be but knew not who had carved him or worked out the etchings running down his cheeks.
Now they called him Ahu Tahai, one of the many guardians of Easter Island or Rapa Nui as the islanders knew his home to be. They now said he was part of the Moai, the Rano Raraku Quarry his birthplace. Time had claimed several of his brothers such that only 397 remained. He was one of few blessed with sight and from his perch saw wild horses grazing close by an abandoned farm stead. Of greater interest was the spectral light show that he enjoyed each day since the time he could remember. It began with the sun’s descent, bathing his granite cold skin in warmth and an incandescent glow. A sight that could stump even him centuries later would without a doubt take the breath away of the humans who continued to visit him to this day.